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Authors: Sophie McKenzie

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BOOK: You Can Trust Me
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Thinking of Julia, I'm half-inclined to make my excuses and slip out to the bathroom to return her call after all—I don't care, right now, that she's maybe been a bit selfish tonight; I need to talk to my best friend—but before I can utter a word, Martha and Leo are here.

Leo beams and pumps Will's hand, giving him a mighty slap on the back.

“Good to see you, sir,” he says in that mock posh accent he often affects in public situations. Both Martha and Will insist that Leo is privately a lot less confident than he appears in company, but he always manages to unsettle me. There's something overbearing about his presence, something unnerving about his piercing gaze. “How's the promotion sitting with you?”

This is a reference to the fact that Leo recently added deputy managing director to Will's job as planning director. It's a recognition of Will's talent and his hard work, and brings with it a little more money and a lot more stress.

“It's sitting very nicely, thanks,” Will says with a slight blush.

Leo winks at me, his gaze straying briefly to the neckline of my dress. I fidget from side to side. It's not that I think Leo is perving after me; he's never even flirted openly. But there's a restless quality about him—you never quite know
what
he's thinking.

“Livy.” Martha draws me toward her, planting a soft kiss on my cheek. “You look lovely. How are the kids?”

I smile, grateful for her warmth, all thoughts of calling Julia quickly forgotten. Martha never fails to ask after Hannah and Zack. She is childless herself and often says with a lighthearted smile that if she'd had a daughter, she'd have wanted her to be like me.

“The kids are good,” I say. “Hannah's getting all hormonal, but Zack's still Zack. Your new place is lovely, by the way.”

“Glad you like it.” Martha says. A frown creases her forehead. “But Hannah surely can't be that old,” she says.

“Afraid so. She'll be thirteen in October.” I fish Will's phone out of his pocket and show Martha the screen saver: a photo of Hannah and Zack looking suntanned in shorts and T-shirts from our Easter holiday in Spain. As Martha coos with an almost grandmotherly pride over the children, Paul and Becky wander up. It's good to see them, not just because we haven't hooked up in ages, but also because of our long-standing connection.

Paul and I met studying History at university, though we didn't really become good friends until after uni, when Paul took a job at Harbury Media and introduced me to Will, who already worked there. Paul met Becky soon after that, and for a while, the four of us spent a lot of time socializing together.

“Zack looks so cute,” Becky gushes. “Just adorable.”

I smile once more, resisting the temptation to launch into an anecdote. Paul and Becky don't have kids, and I'm painfully aware that their interest, unlike Martha's genuine delight in my children, stretches only so far. As if to prove my point, Becky turns away from the phone and whispers something in Paul's ear.

I watch them. They are both aging well: Paul all slim and suited with slicked-back hair, and Becky elegant in a blue cocktail dress. I've known Paul such a long time that I often forget Leo is his dad—a product of Leo's first, never-talked-about marriage. It must be weird, working for your own father, but Paul seems happy enough.

I hand Will back his phone. A moment later, Leo steers him away to talk to Werner Heine, a client from Germany.

I catch Martha's eye.

She offers another smile, this one resigned. “They never stop working, do they?”

I smile ruefully back. Paul and Becky are still chatting away to each other, not listening to us.

Martha moves closer to me, lowering her voice.“I'm so sorry about Catrina,” she says. “Leo invited her without thinking—then it was too late. I found out only a few days ago.” She rolls her eyes. “Men, honestly.”

I nod, my face burning. So she knows. I've never talked about the affair with Martha—or with anyone aside from Julia. I know Martha is just being her usual, kind self, but it's hard not to feel humiliated.

Martha squeezes my shoulder, clearly concerned. Embarrassed, I glance around the room again. A lot of the people here work in Leo's office with him and Will. How many of
them
know? Will told me he'd never said anything to anyone at work about his affair. I guess I was stupid to think that meant no one had noticed. Or that gossip wouldn't start and spread.

“I love what you've done with this room,” Becky says to Martha, who gives my shoulder another squeeze, then falls back into hostess mode.

As Martha and Becky begin a detailed conversation about Farrow & Ball color choices, Paul catches my eye. Unlike Leo, he has a long, narrow face with no trace of his father's square, fleshy features except perhaps around the mouth.

“How are you, Livy?” he asks.

“Fine,” I lie.

“Did I hear you saying Hannah's getting all ‘moody teenager'?”

Encouraged by his interest, I dive into my latest story about Hannah requesting a leg-waxing appointment “when she hasn't even started her period.” Paul looks slightly embarrassed at this mention, and I silently rebuke myself. He's always been a tad fastidious. I remember him very politely insisting that Hannah's diaper should be placed directly in their outside trash can on our first visit after she was born. The request was fair enough, of course, but it kind of signaled the start of our mutual retreat from the friendship the four of us had enjoyed up until then. Over the past few years, our visits to each other's homes have dwindled, though we still meet every few months for dinner or drinks out in Exeter.

Becky joins in the conversation again as Paul explains how they're having their house—a rambling Victorian mansion in Topsham—remodeled over the summer. Becky is a maths teacher at the local private school, petite and strikingly attractive, with a mane of glossy dark hair swept up in an elaborate bun and eyes as dark and sparkly as her husband's. Paul, of course, works for Harbury Media, though as the company's account director with special responsibility for digital marketing, he is one step lower down the pecking order than Will. Paul has a charming line in self-deprecation, stopping short of false modesty but insisting that his work, though challenging, is dull and that his wife is the one with the brains. On this occasion he is complimenting Becky on her understanding of the structural work being done to their house.

“She totally keeps the builders on their toes, he says, looking at his wife admiringly. “Brains
and
beauty.”

She blushes and kisses him on the cheek. Instinctively, I glance around for Will. Paul and Becky got married the same year as Will and I did, though they seem blissfully happy, while Will and I managed only seven years before his affair. We've almost been married as many years since, but the second half has been harder. Right now it's hard not to feel envious of a couple who are so obviously still in love.

I ask Becky whether she's looking forward to the end of term, coming up in the next couple of weeks, and the planned renovations to her and Paul's house.

“God, yes,” she says, “but mainly because we're moving out and letting the builders get on with it until September.”

“Where are you going to stay?” My eyes flit across the room to where Will is chatting with some of his work colleagues. I don't know all the women in the group he's talking to, but I'm certain none of them is Catrina.

Becky launches into a description of her parents' place in Spain, where she is heading the day after term ends.

“Of course I'll miss Paul,” she says, giving her husband an affectionate smile.

“And I'll miss you.” Paul turns to me and grimaces. “Thanks to work, I won't be able to join her for ages”

“Over a month.” Becky kisses his cheek. “Aw, sweetie.”

I stare at them, trying to dispel the envy I'm feeling at the ease of their intimacy. Even in the good days, Will and I were never one of those couples who finish each other's sentences.

“So where will you stay before you fly out to Becky?” I ask Paul.

“One of my mum's places,” Paul explains. “She owns a few houses in the area.”

I nod. I know very little about Paul's mother. As a teenager, he had a falling out with her—and with his stepfather, whom he'd loathed. I'm aware they're in touch, but it's obvious Paul isn't close to his mum, even now. Neither Leo nor Martha ever mention her, though I do know that Leo's marriage to his first wife ended when Paul was very young, long before meeting Martha. Paul has never seemed bitter about that, maintaining with a wry smile that if he'd been married to his mother, he'd have left her too.

We carry on talking and drinking for a few more minutes. Leo and Martha's cat, Snowflake, a beautiful white Persian with blue eyes, stalks by, drawing many admiring glances. Will comes over and he and Paul start chatting about motorbikes, the shared passion that sparked their original friendship. Paul has, apparently, just bought a new Ducati. Will's eyes widen as Paul tells him the exact model. I know he would love a bike himself. Will sold his last motorcycle when Hannah was a baby so that we could buy a new car, and his own bike-riding days are now long behind him.

Becky is still talking about Spain—Andalucía, to be precise—and the hikes she and Paul enjoyed on their last holiday there. By now, there's a fixed smile on my face. It's not just the display of wedded bliss I'm having to witness, that's making me feel uncomfortable but also the fact that I'm all too aware Catrina will be here soon. If she isn't already.

After a few more moments, Martha says she has to check on the food and slides away to the kitchen. Becky follows her. Paul and Will are still talking about bikes. so I gaze around the room. This is hell. My glass is empty. I've knocked it back far too fast. The waiter wanders over with another tray of wine and champagne. I take a drink and press the cool, damp glass against my cheek as Leo strolls over.

“Hey, Dad.” Paul gives his father a pat on the back. “Good party—the clients are loving it.

Leo acknowledges the compliment with a small smile. I notice—not for the first time—that Will shrinks into himself a little in his boss's presence, as if attempting to adopt a more deferential air. I wonder if Leo realizes that.

Another few minutes pass. More guests arrive. I find my eyes constantly drawn to the door, watching and waiting. Leo spots me looking and touches my arm. There's nothing inappropriate about his touch, yet his hand feels too heavy on my skin.

“We really appreciate you coming, Livy,” he says in an uncharacteristically gentle voice.

I can feel my cheeks reddening. He knows about Catrina too. I glance around. Paul is watching me while listening to Will describe some classic motorbike he saw yesterday. Does he know as well? Does Becky?

For a few sickening moments, I wonder how
much
they know. Catrina had been working in the office for a while. Probably all the guys fancied her. Probably Will thought he was the luckiest man in the firm when their eyes met over the photocopier or however the whole sleazy business began.

Leo's hand is still on my arm. I shift slightly away from him and he removes it at last. As he turns to Paul, I close my eyes, remembering the days of obsessive worrying and imagining. How did it start? How many times? How good was the sex? When and how and where was I lied to?

And through all the fights that followed the confession I forced from my husband's lips: Will's terror that I would leave him. His insistence that it had been a moment of madness—well, two months of moments. That I was the love of his life. That our home and our children and our life together were his whole world.

I forgave him—and I tried to forget. But over the past six years, the memory of the affair retains its power to corrode my trust, like acid or rust. It's ironic: when I was younger, before it happened, I imagined an affair would be a nuclear explosion in my marriage, obliterating it. The reality has turned out to be more like a nail bomb, leaving shards and fragments in unexpected places. Less annihilation, more attrition—though possibly just as fatal.

I open my eyes. Both Paul and Leo are watching the door. Simultaneously, their gaze switches back to me. I look over to the door myself. Oh God. It's her. She's shorter and curvier than I was expecting, in a clingy blue dress. Her face is smiling and open, but she is attractive rather than pretty. Certainly not beautiful. I stare at her. I've spent so long imagining a lingerie-toting supermodel that it's hard to accept the ordinary-looking girl I see in front of me. One thing's for sure—she is young. Her skin is plump and fresh, her eyes sparkling.

I realize I'm still staring and look away. Will presses his hand into the small of my back.
I'm here.

I don't look him in the eye. Can't. I feel flushed and exposed. I wish I weren't here. I wish I were anywhere else. At home, reading Zack a story or listening to Hannah argue for the millionth time how everyone else in her class has an iPhone.

Will is talking now, some detail about work with Leo and another colleague. I stare down at the beautiful parquet flooring and notice that the polish on my right big toe has chipped. And then I feel Will stiffen beside me. Instinctively, I know that this means Catrina must have come over. I look up. Freeze. She's standing in front of us, that blue dress hugging her curves, a pair of elegant drop earrings glittering in the lamplight. She extends her hand to Will, and he has to take his palm from my back to shake. She is as groomed and polished as Julia predicted, but utterly without the Parisian sneer.

“Will, it's been ages,” she says with a smile. She has a Yorkshire accent. I'm taken aback. I wasn't expecting this … this mix of down-to-earth friendliness and sophisticated glamour.

BOOK: You Can Trust Me
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